The Collar
by ArrowandShield
Summary: Clint disappears while working to bring down a human trafficking ring. Hint of Captain Hawk. Asex!Clint. Straight!Steve.


**Clint goes missing while working to bring down a human trafficking ring... **

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**The Collar**

When Clint finally made it back to them the archer was severely under weight, his wrist was fractured and there was a six pound collar of solid iron locked around his neck.

He'd been undercover for four weeks and missing for eleven. Something had gone horribly wrong. Clint's Handler had lost him and unlike Phil or Natasha would have gone in to get him back, the Handler had panicked and rushed back to SHIELD to report. The wasted time traveling and planning, by the time that they had gotten back Clint and any sign of the human trafficking ring he'd been working to bring down were gone. No one could blame the Handler, she's done what she was supposed to do technically. Though almost everyone was appalled that she'd left Clint behind like that.

Steve was in a panic. He didn't show it externally, never in front of anyone but when he was home and alone the soldier was a mess. Pacing and wringing his hands and talking to himself, trying to reassure himself that Clint was fine, he would be back as soon as he was able, that he would come back okay. He'd made Clint promise to come back; like he did every mission and he'd never lied or failed him.

Natasha proved to be his only source of relief. The spy was busy and out of sight mostly doing her own hunting to find Clint. The few times Steve was able to speak with her the calm confidence that Clint was fine and would probably return before they had a chance to rescues him soothed Steve. But it was difficult to hang onto that when Natasha was not around.

When the weeks turned into months Steve's fear and panic started to turn into grief. He could not lose someone else. Not like this. The soldier flung himself into the case, demanding copies of every record and map, every hint and lead. He hunted and dug and saw far more about the human trafficking world than he would ever have cared too. Steve even went so far as to search auction listings for anything that resembled Clint in description.

Nothing. It was like the archer had never existed.

The Avengers were grieving for the loss and gently tried to encourage Steve to do the same. He refused to let go of some small pang of hope that Clint was alive. The soldier allowed them to take him out, get him to eat or go to movies, anything and Steve put up the best smile he could as he went along. But it all felt hollow.

It had been a night that the Avengers had been working towards slowly for the last few months. The team, to Thor's reassurances and pleading, had willingly allowed Loki to join them. It had been a stiff and awkward dinner despite Tony and Loki sniping at each other all night and Thor beaming happily that his bother had been included along. Steve had stayed quiet half caged in his musings and half in watching Loki from the corner of his eye.

When the younger Prince of Asgard had finally voiced, snidely, that where had the hawk gone? He'd wanted to reminisce with his old lacky. The silence that fell around the table had even shocked Loki. He'd looked around at the Avengers, even seeing his brother cloudy eyed and shaking a bit. The looks sent Steve's way then quickly turned in another direction. Steve shrunk under their gaze and quietly excused himself. He didn't go to the bathroom or get fresh air like he said, he just left. He'd have to make it up to the team later but he couldn't stay any longer.

The sound of running water in the bathroom of the apartment had set Steve on edge and he carefully stalked along to the doorway, the spill of pale light from within fluttered when something moved in the room. Steve cautiously stepped towards the door frame and leaned a bit to look.

His knees had gone weak and he'd nearly collapsed.

Clint was perched carefully on the edge of the tub, running warm water into the tub and filling it slowly. Steve studied him, making sure it was all real.

Clint was pale, his skin that yellowish milky color of someone who had been ill for a very long time. And every spans of skin was marred with bruises, some healing and turned yellowish green and others still fresh and glaring red and purple. He was so thin that Steve could count his ribs and the buttons of his spine stood out more predominantly. The ragged pair of sweatpants were hanging off his hips. His hair had grown long and was bleached out of its normal color to a pale straw yellow instead of the dark blonde it was supposed to be. He was holding his left hand close to his chest, protectively and it had been splinted awkwardly. There was the stale scent of sweat and grime in the air.

And that collar… Steve hated it on sight and he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was solid iron, black and polished to a high sheen. It looked as if it was a single, solid bar. There were no seams or buckles to indicate it had an opening. It was as if the collar had been welded into place. The only features were four lard D rings at equal intervals around the collar. The collar was poorly fit, the skin underneath was raw and chaffed and bleeding sluggishly, there were freshly healed scars all up and down Clint's throat suggesting that it wasn't the only collar or thing that had been used on him.

Steve's guts turned over, all the research he'd done he had a good idea what they'd used that collar for. He choked out Clint's name and stepped forwards. The archer tensed and twisted ready for a fight instinctively. Steve's heart rejoiced at that. Clint was still ready to fight, still able to be a threat. They hadn't broken him.

The archer seemed shocked at seeing Steve, as if he'd forgotten where he was or hadn't expected to see Steve… possibly ever again. The hard and hateful glaze in his eyes gives way to exhausted relief and Clint stumbles a bit towards the soldier.

Steve is there in a second. He wanted to hug him, keep him close but he'd probably do more harm than good. He helped ease Clint back to sit on the edge of the tub. The archer's useable hand was firmly locked around Steve's bicep and would not let go. The grip was tight enough to make Steve wince a little but he didn't try to make him let go. It was only a few minutes before Clint was shaking, finally feeling safe shock was setting in rapidly. Steve quickly pulled out his Nokia and dialed Bruce's number, asking the doctor to come over. Discreetly. When Steve explained the situation Bruce asked to relate the news to the others on the team.

Steve was hesitant but he agreed, he couldn't keep something like this from them. But Steve didn't want anyone but Bruce there and the soldier was having a hard time wanting Bruce there for a second longer than he needed to be. The soldier asked Bruce to tell Natasha, ask her to stay behind and explain everything to the rest of the team and keep them from coming over just yet.

The doctor agreed, promised to be there momentarily and cut the connection. Steve quietly related to Clint what was happening, even if the archer had been sitting right next to him the whole time. Steve had seen men in shock before, he knew that it could be difficult for them to understand what was going on, it was only after Clint had nodded in understanding that Steve had gently asked what he needed, what did he have to do to help.

Clint really wasn't much help and only managed to mutter something about cleaning up. Steve could have guessed as much with the water running into the tub.

Steve helped Clint out of the ragged sweats and into the shallow water, the archer was doing his best to keep his splinted hand up and he just seemed unable to let go of Steve's arm. The soldier gently set to work. He scrubbed Clint's pale skin with infinite care, being especially careful around the bruising and the sharp edges of the ribs. A fine layer of dust and sweat fell away; dead skin and scabs on some of the scars broke free, making the marks new and pale pink or bleed fresh in others. Steve carefully lathered Clint's hair turning the ugly bleach job even paler. Steve hated that color but there was nothing to do but wait for his hair to grow out and back to its natural color. The sour smell faded and the warmth of the water brought a faint pink back to his yellowed skin. He still shivered and Steve gently pried away from Clint to find a set of warm, fresh clothes and two of the thick, fluffy towels they had in the closet.

Clint was watching the door intently when Steve came back; he reached shakily for the soldier with his good hand and Steve rushed to get close again. Clint locked his hand around Steve's bicep, he was shaking harder and the soldier spent five minutes reassuring him as he drained the water. The soldier gently urged the archer up and scrubbed him drown before helping him into the fresh sweat pants and tee shirt, both were far too big, not only because of Clint's lost weight but because they belonged to Steve. The soldier had only dared go as far as his own room, not wanting to be too far from Clint.

He gently walked the smaller man through the apartment to the couch and quickly bundled him in Clint's quilt before easing down to sit with him. Steve tucked them into the corner of the couch together and waited. Clint curled himself into a ball against Steve's side and the soldier spoke quietly to him, his eyes straying to that ever hated collar over and over.

Bruce had out a rush on it and when he arrived he was laden down not only with his medical duffle but with a special kit for making and setting a cast. From Steve's description over the phone Bruce had figured that it was likely Clint was suffering from broken bones.

The doctor approached carefully, he could see that Clint was frightened, in shock and at the moment completely dependent on Steve. The doctor carefully inspected Clint, searching each bruise and wound, gently feeling the ridges of his ribs and spine. He carefully undid the splint and found that Clint's wrist was severely fractured and the doctor instructed Steve to hold the joint in place. Steve took on the duty with a soldier's attitude and the intensity of a frightened friend.

Clint endured the poking and prodding, even managing to smile at Bruce and nod yes or no to any questions. There was nothing to probing, those would come later. At the moment it was only questions about if something was in pain.

Bruce inspected the collar, the look of distaste and slight green haze to the edge of his eyes suggested he hated the piece of iron as much as Steve did. Bruce searched for some place to unlock it, get it free from Clint's mauled throat.

Clint made no sound as Bruce fiddled and gently fought the collar. He twisted it and lifted it, gently rotated it, tearing flesh that had healed to the metal open and sending new dribbles of blood down his neck and soaking stains into the white tee shirt. The way Clint's breath was tightly controlled but rushed and the way he shut his eyes and shivered it was obvious to Bruce and Steve that the collar was causing the archer agony. When Bruce tried to thread his fingers underneath the iron it choked Clint into coughing, and he brought up a small spatter of blood.

That brought Steve and Bruce to a stop. Bruce asked quietly if the reason Clint hadn't spoken was because the collar? That it was too tight for him to speak? Reluctantly but honestly Clint nodded and opened his mouth wide enough for Bruce to look in. He could see the inside of Clint's throat was badly inflamed and swollen, putting pressure on his voice box and larynx. It was choking him.

Steve couldn't handle it a moment longer. There was no end in sight. The soldier asked Clint to trust him, to take a deep breath and be still. The archer looked trusting to Steve and inhaled deeply. Steve sat up, and with rushed repeated whispers of 'sorry' and 'hang on' threaded one of his hands under the collar, between Clint's ravaged throat and the hated object. Clint was still but it was obvious he was strangling. The soldier gripped the collar tightly then set his other hand on the outside. Steve didn't hesitate, straining against the thick iron, spurred by adrenaline and the need to help his friend the iron stretched, groaned and snapped, wrenching open. Steve threw it to the floor in disgust; it clanged loudly and smeared blood on the hardwood.

Clint took his first free breath in nearly three months and managed out a strangled and whispered 'thank you'.

Steve kept rumbling reassurances as he helped Bruce mop up and clean the ugly shredded flesh of Clint's throat. They scrubbed it gently is water and anabolic soap, dabbed with boric acid and antibiotics. Clint shivered and tensed while Bruce gently padded his throat with gauze and wrapped it with self adhering bandaging. Steve reassured him quietly that it would all come off again later and Clint seemed to calm a bit.

With his throat taken care of Bruce used a bowl to mix some plaster and gently set a cast over Clint's fractured wrist. He lightened the mood a bit by making the last layer in light purple. Clint managed a strained laugh and a weak joke about it. Just the quietly wheezed tease set Steve at ease. Clint was not entirely lost, he was here.

Bruce took the bloodied tee shirt away and brought back Clint favorite Iowa State Hawkeyes hoodie, while Steve helped the archer into it the doctor retrieved a gallon of milk from the kitchen and brought it and two large glasses to the living room, as well as a loaf of bread from the bakery a few blocks away. He instructed Steve to encourage Clint to drink the milk intermittently and if he kept it down to add the bread here and there. They would have to build Clint back up slowly.

Steve nodded, promising as he bundled the exhausted archer closer to his side. The chill the shock had set into Clint was fading as he pressed close to the furnace of body heat that Steve put out.

Bruce carefully picked up the collar, wrapping it in the bloody tee shirt and wiped up the blood from the floor before tucking it away into his duffle. He cleaned up everything and reassured Steve and Clint one more time that all would be well before exiting quietly, leaving Steve to carry on. Heading back to the rest of the team to appraise them on Clint's status… and show them the collar.

It would not go ever very well.

The soldier bundled Clint closer to himself, helped the archer nurse his way through a glass of the milk. The shock and exhaustion finally caught up to him and Clint curled close to the safety of Steve's side and dozed off.

The soldier stayed up and alert, watching everything in the apartment warily, as if expecting some wraith to step from the shadows and try and take Clint away. Steve knew that he would never allow that to happen, he'd kill anyone that tried to take the archer. Especially now that he'd just gotten Clint back. Steve had made him promise to return, he'd come back late, battered and worn down. Less whole than he promised he would. But the archer had returned, fulfilled his promise. He hadn't failed Steve. Now the soldier was determined to do the same.

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**A/N: Some whumpage on poor Clint and a nice streak of over protective Steve. This one was both fun and hard to write at the same time. Hope you guys liked!**


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